


At the Crossroads

by MiriamKenneath



Category: Jewish Scripture & Legend, The Alphabet of Ben Sira
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Child Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, London, Magical Pregnancy, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:01:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24049357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiriamKenneath/pseuds/MiriamKenneath
Summary: Finsbury Park is at a crossroads, you see, and Lilith knows that there ispowerat the crossroads.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 9
Collections: Once Upon a Fic 2020





	At the Crossroads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [summoninglupine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summoninglupine/gifts).



There is much she does not remember. She has lived too long, you see, and forgetting is easy.

She doesn’t remember her parents or the circumstances of her birth. She doesn’t remember her childhood. She doesn’t remember how she came to London or how long she has lived here.

She does remember that she used to have a husband and that their marriage did not end amicably. She thinks he’s living in Highgate with a new wife these days, but she isn’t certain. She doesn’t even remember the last time she saw him. Perhaps he’s dead. Yes, that is quite possible.

She’s not dead, though. She lives a few miles to the east of Highgate in Finsbury Park. ‘Such an awful place,’ she remembers being told sometime recently or long, long ago. ‘You wouldn’t believe it. Spread out between Islington, Hackney and Haringey, and each borough expects the other two to take responsibility for the neighbourhood, so nothing ever gets done or improved.’ She doesn’t remember who told her this, man or woman, young or old. She does remember that they no longer live in London. She thinks they may have moved house to Scotland.

Between three boroughs, with an important bus, rail and tube interchange at its centre. People – so many people – passing through. Remembered for a while and then forgotten. Finsbury Park is at a crossroads, you see, and Lilith knows that there is _power_ at the crossroads.

Most pass through quickly, yes, their minds elsewhere already, at some farther destination. But people do stay. Their reasons are to do with work, mostly. Some, like Lilith, come to leave the past behind. And there are a few, a precious, precious few, who, by circumstance or malice, are forced to stay.

She walks the streets at night and visits with the foxes, the roaches and the rats. They, like she, live in the shadows of humanity’s leavings, unwanted and unwelcome. Yet they thrive. ‘Do not give into despair, Lilith,’ they say. ‘You defy the Ineffable and his messengers while you still live.’

‘Yes. They can hate me, and they can threaten, but words and feelings cannot make me leave if I do not choose it myself. In the meantime, their hate makes me strong,’ she replies, and she can almost believe her own words. Almost. She has lived too long.

She passes row after row after row of squat Victorian terraces. Their bay windows hang almost over the pavement. All are occupied, often by more people than they were meant to contain. Most of the windows are dark, though. Most of the inhabitants, weary and sound asleep.

On occasion she sees signs of furtive movement within or the blue-white flickers of television light. The sleepless of London – they do not dream.

A woman lies crumpled, her battered body curled in on itself, her bruised face hidden behind a tangled veil of curly dark hair. Her clothes torn and askew. ‘My husband, he…my husband, he…oh, oh, God, why did he…’ the woman whimpers.

Although she can smell the blood, the semen and the bitter tears, Lilith does not stop to help her. The woman still lives, you see, and that’s what counts. She has not been broken.

They kill her children at dawn. One-hundred exactly, every day, with the first rays of sunrise. She has invested so much of herself into each birth; each death saps her strength. The losses are innumerable, but she remembers each and every one.

She returns home to mourn. A studio flat, fully furnished and modern. She does not remember how she came by it, but the brand new building gleams, and it is tall. It has already been declared a fire hazard. Something about improper exterior cladding means that it will probably burn down soon. Another offering in tribute to humanity’s vanity, nothing less. It suits Lilith.

More children. She must make more children. She must not let them win.

If they would kill one-hundred, she will make one-hundred-and-one. One will survive.

Her labours are hard. No one, not even she, can make something from nothing. Her life, however long, is finite.

So, she takes what has been cast aside, what is not wanted. The boys are hers for eight days; the girls are hers for twenty. The ones who wear the amulets she ignores, for they are wanted. She only wants the unwanted.

They incubate inside her magic, and they are given iridescent scales and horns and wings. They become lighter than air. ‘Fly fast,’ she coos into the pointed shells of their ears, ‘and you may still live.’

She knows most will not outrun the dawn.

There is much she does not remember. She has lived too long, you see, and forgetting is easy.

She doesn’t remember most of the places she has been. She doesn’t remember most of the people she has met. They are little more than shadows, cavorting with flickering firelight on the stone ceiling of a cavern.

She does remember the woman with the curly dark hair, however. The body is still battered, and the face is still bruised. But the belly…the belly…

Inside the belly, a seed has ripened.

‘Take it from me,’ the woman says. ‘I know you can. You’re Lilith the Witch. The First Wife of Adam.’

She is amused. She raises one brow. ‘How is it that you know me?’ she asks.

‘I remember you, standing beside my cradle,’ the woman replies. ‘You would have taken me, but I was wanted then. Everyone knows you this way, but most forget. A few, a precious, precious few – we remember.’

She is surprised. She raises both brows. In the distance, thunder rumbles. ‘And who are you to dare make demands of me?’

‘I am the choices I make,’ the woman replies. ‘The same as you.’

She takes it from her – a boy – and the woman with the curly hair takes her leave, compact overnight bag on wheels rolling behind her. She heads in the direction of the station, and Lilith knows she will not return to London. Piccadilly line, Finsbury Park to Heathrow Terminal 5, no changes. The person who has hurt her will be left behind for good. Remembered for a while and then forgotten. Finsbury Park is at a crossroads, you see, and Lilith knows that there is _power_ at the crossroads.


End file.
